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Harry should feel guilty, right? She should feel bad about the body on the concrete behind them. That was a man lying there, with a life and maybe a girlfriend or even a child that he neglected. Harry shouldn’t feel relieved that he was dead instead of Tom.
Right?
That was the normal response when you’d killed someone, but somewhere along the way from breaking out of Wool’s Juvenile Detention Center, stealing an entire bag of cash from the Death Eater gang, and accidentally crashing Tom’s shitty car into their headquarters, Harry had lost sight of what a normal response was, and fuck — it was only Tuesday.
“We should get the fuck out of here,” Tom said, drawing Harry from her dazed contemplation. “The rest of them will show up soon, and then it’ll be a really bad scene.” She fished a crumpled pack of cigarettes from her back pocket and shook one out, her hands trembling slightly as she unsuccessfully snapped the lighter again and again.
“Fuck.”
“Here, let me,” Harry said softly, taking it from her and holding up the flame. Why was Harry more coolheaded about all this than Tom? The girl whose every move she’d idolized for the last five years had schemed up this entire plot from the darkness of their shitty dormitory, but maybe now that it was actually happening, she was losing her nerve?
Tom looked up to meet Harry’s evaluating gaze, the flicker of the lighter reflecting in her dark eyes. The wide mouth that Harry loved spread into a sly smirk, and she tilted her head mockingly. In a second’s work, she’d transformed from a rattled teen back to the confident con that Harry adored.
“Let's blow this place, darling,” she said, leading Harry to their car, the front bumper lost to the crash but still in good enough shape to get them out of town and onto the next thing.
As Tom shifted into Drive, Harry used the side view mirror to look back at the man on the concrete and the pool of blood spreading around him. Good riddance, s he decided as Tom dropped her cigarette to the ground and sped off. Behind them, the coal sparked into flame and raced along the trail of gas they’d laid back to the warehouse.
Harry grinned at the result; explosions looked as cool in real life as they did in the movies.
Harry could mark the beginning of their friendship easily. Built on a shared cell at Wool’s Juvenile Detention Center, cultivated by dodging the Death Eaters and dirty prison guards, it began as something akin to protection. Quid pro quo — Tom would protect Harry if Harry would stand by her no matter what.
And it had blossomed; at seventeen, Harry was a proper criminal — not just a scapegoat for Dudley's gang this time — and harbouring a burgeoning crush on her best friend.
Harry grinned wildly as Tom sped down the M80, swerving through the double traffic lanes, windows down. It was like flying, and a giddy feeling rose in Harry’s chest. She whooped out loud, and Tom laughed too, veering sharply to narrowly avoid crashing into the back of a Ford Fiesta.
“Fucking hell,” Harry breathed, crashing violently back against the head rest. “You’re going to fucking crash. Jesus, Tom.”
Tom ignored her, smirking as she reached for the radio and switched it on. She flicked through stations until Tchaikovsky came blaring out, Romantic waltz filling the car.
Harry almost laughed, turning helplessly to Tom. “Really?” she asked.
“Culture, darling,” Tom explained, fingers drumming on the wheel. “I forget you’re a bloody heathen.”
“At least I’m not a fucking nerd.”
Harry watched in delight as Tom’s cheeks flushed a little, and a low, warm thing curled in her stomach. She forced herself to laugh and turn away.
Harry dug into her pocket and withdrew her lighter, flicking the button and watching the flame glint. She did it again when it died, flicking the button to calm her nerves.
Tom’s hand reached out, covering Harry’s, stilling the repetitive motion. Gently, she prised the lighter from Harry’s fingers and dropped it into the compartment on the side door.
“Hey, darling. Don’t stress,” she said, mistaking Harry’s actions. “There’s no one left to trace us home. And we’ll dump the car soon, shave our heads, get fake IDs — whatever we need to do to make you feel safe.”
Tom slid her arm around Harry’s shoulder, fingers gripping the knitted fabric of her red jumper. Harry’s eyes fluttered shut as Tom tugged her close and pressed a kiss to her forehead, gaze never leaving the motorway.
